


Token

by robokittens



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: M/M, the most softcore bloodplay ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29390976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens/pseuds/robokittens
Summary: Hickey's habit of saying everything like it's some sort of secret of the universe is getting old.
Relationships: Charles Frederick Des Voeux/Cornelius Hickey
Comments: 12
Kudos: 13
Collections: The Terror Rarepair Week 2021





	Token

**Author's Note:**

> thank you again to rose for making sure i'm coherent(ish) ❤️

"You can't curry favor, you know."

Des Voeux doesn't lift his head, keeps intent on his work. There's no sense looking at Hickey: he'll be speaking to the sky, as he's been since they walked out. He's always looking either somewhere off in the heavens or deep in your eyes; it doesn't much matter half the time if he's speaking to you or to whatever unfathomable thing he's trying to reach. If he's looking at Des Voeux now, Des Voeux's not looking back.

"I'm not currying anything," Des Voeux says. The shale shifts underfoot, under his pick, reluctant to keep the shape he's trying to form. He drops to his haunches and tosses the pick aside, not minding where it lands. It'll be easier to do this with his hands, forming pieces of shale into a rough circle, building it higher. "Just don't see why we've got to eat everything cold. No sense _not_ starting a fire."

Hickey makes some sort of noise of assent, not quite approval. Des Voeux glances at him: he's got the pick Des Voeux had been using, somehow, although he hadn't heard him move to get it. He's looking at the sky after all, but his gaze drifts down to Des Voeux after a moment.

"Does it matter?" he asks finally. "Does it make it better for you?"

Des Voeux meets his gaze then. He doesn't roll his eyes, but he's certain there's no attempt at _favor_ there. "It's nothing grand," he says. "Don't get ahead of yourself. If you wouldn't rather have years-old vegetables warmed up at least, you're welcome to eat straight from the can. Nothing stopping you."

There's a bit of irony to the last bit; Hickey's well aware there's nothing _stopping_ him. It wasn't long into this … excursion … that Des Voeux had realized it was just as foolish to have broken off as to have remained with the rest. Whatever Hickey had planned — and he had _something_ planned, that was clear — it wasn't likely to work.

He doesn't say it, but Hickey must hear it in his voice anyway from the low way he laughs.

Hickey crouches down next to Des Voeux, the pick abandoned, and takes a piece of shale straight from his hand. He turns it this way and that, looking at it like it's got some sort of secret. "Sharp," he says finally. He runs a finger along one edge of the thing. His habit of saying everything like it's some sort of secret of the universe is getting old. Des Voeux sits back: there's no sense in continuing on with something _practical_ when Hickey's in one of his moods.

"Going to stab someone with it?" He keeps his tone idle, although it's a fair enough question. Hickey doesn't answer either way, just keeps running his finger across the sharp edge of the stone. He's more likely to draw his own blood that way than someone else's that way. It's with curiosity, not fear, that Des Voeux keeps his eyes on Hickey.

"What would you do?" Hickey asks finally. He rocks back and forth on his heels. "If I bled, now? Would you drink my blood? Take it into you?"

Des Voeux huffs out a laugh. "Not that desperate yet." 

There's a pause, that _yet_ in the air between them. Des Voeux holds his gaze though, even as he reaches out, only looking away as he finally takes the stone from Hickey's hand. The edge _is_ sharp. He can see, on the tip of Hickey's finger, under the dirt and dust, a faint seam of red.

He leans in, runs the edge of the rock over that same spot. A drop of blood beads out. He looks up at Hickey's face again, but Hickey isn't looking; he's watching as Des Voeux presses the tip of his own finger to Hickey's, to the blood there, rubs it between his thumb and forefinger.

"It's not much, if that's all you've got to offer me." Des Voeux says. He sits back. Hickey's still looking at his hand, at where his blood had disappeared there. His own hand is held out, as if asking Des Voeux for something. Or as if offering. 

Hickey looks up again, at that. He's not quite smiling, but there's a shine to his eyes. Des Voeux feels the corner of his own mouth quirk in response.

"I have more," Hickey says, self-assured.

"More blood?" Des Voeux cracks a smile. "I would hope so. Not worth much without it."

"Would you take it in you?" Hickey asks again.

Des Voeux turns the shale in his hand. There's nothing on it, no blood, no evidence that man has been here, no echo of Hickey's airs. "There's no need to pretend," he says finally. He can feel Hickey's eyes on him, but he lets him wait. "If this is just you wanting to get _in me_. You don't need to make it something … mystic. You're a man, aren't you?"

He looks back at Hickey, then: he's rocked back on his heels; there's something wolfish in his smile. Des Voeux matches it.

"Something like that," Hickey says.


End file.
